Staggering
by psquare
Summary: .:Tag to 4.22: Lucifer Rising:. Lucifer has finally broken free, and so have the numerous skeletons from the dark and deep Winchester closet. Guilt, regret, love... they're staggering under the weight. Up'd with Sam's PoV. This ain't gonna end well.
1. Dean

_**A/N:**_ Welcome to my first ever episode tag. I really should be working on Contralateral but you know. Plot bunnies. Fickle little things.

I know there are already a billion tags to this episode already floating around, and some of them are rather brilliant, but this season finale got me thinking like no other episode has to date, and I itched to vent it all.

I'd originally planned to write this from Sam's perspective, but after writing, scoring, several crumpled papers and poking myself thrice in the eye with a pencil, I decided to take the slightly easier and less painful route and wrote from Dean's perspective instead. Forgive the meandering nature of the sentences and the disjointed jumpy thoughts – it is an effort to try and capture the mood, so I would really like to know if it worked.

I'm really worried about the characterisation, and this is completely unbeta'd, so all comments, suggestions and con crit are welcome.

**Warnings:** SPOILERS for pretty much the whole of Season 4, especially, of course, the finale. This picks up exactly from where _Lucifer Rising_ left off. Metaphor-abuse, swearing, references to violence and gore, and _oh my god the ANGST_.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Supernatural_ or any of its characters. Or any of the bits of dialogue from various episodes through the series that I've incorporated into the story.

* * *

_**Staggering**_

In the end, it was all rather anti-climactic.

Dean stared in open-mouthed amazement as the column of light – so white, so _pure_, blinding in its intensity – rose from the circle of blood tracing patterns on the floor like a writhing snake. He cringed as the column of light broke through the ceiling in a short, vicious burst, raining debris down upon them.

Sam's grip on his jacket tightened and twisted.

Squinting and bringing one hand up to protect his eyes, Dean glanced at his brother.

Sam's jaw was clenched, his gaze fixated on the power he had unwittingly unleashed, his throat working in short, convulsive movements. Beads of moisture that could've been perspiration or tears shone on his face, eerily reflecting the light, lending a shimmering glow that threw his features into sharp relief... where long shadows encircled his eyes, new lines creased his forehead, and exhaustion, a bone-deep, world-weary tiredness, was etched into every line of his face and Dean could feel it seeping into _him_... and all was darkness and regret and the thrum of adrenaline deserting him, leaving his sanity and soul raw and vulnerable and _Sammy, how could we let this happen_.

To them.

To the world.

The entire room seemed to take a long, deep breath.

The light petered out, disappeared.

Sam and Dean stood still in the sudden darkness, hands still gripped in each others' jackets, bracing for the end of the world that never came. Crumbling debris still rained down, settling in their hair and clothes, the corpses, the blood and the spellwork.

Several minutes passed in silence before Sam finally let go of Dean's jacket, his fingers opening with a painful, arthritic rigidity. He turned his face away, bangs falling to obscure his eyes and damn if Dean hadn't seen his brother shuttering himself away too many times in the past year.

"Sam," he said. "Sam, what do we do now?"

_That_ startled his brother. He turned his head sharply, staring at Dean, eyes wide and green and wet. "What?" he said, voice hoarse and breathy and packed with more emotion than Dean could possibly hope to dissect.

Dean let go of Sam's jacket, patting his chest twice, smoothing the fabric. "You know, what next," he continued casually. "Was that the big bad or is Lucifer gonna need a little more prodding before the end of the world?"

Sam's throat worked. "I don't know," he said. "God, Dean, I don't – _didn't_ –" He turned away, fists clenched, fighting hard for control. "I _didn't_ -- and now _this_ –" He shook his head. "Man, this is all my fault – and, uh." His whole frame was trembling now.

Dean watched him with a calm he didn't know he possessed. "Yeah, Sam, it's your fault," he said, voice loud and clear and ringing. Sam turned, the tears now freely running down his face. "Just like it was mine to break the first Seal." He shook his head, a rueful smile on his lips, still wondering where this preternatural calm was _coming_ from. "There's just... just a lot of shit going down, dude, a mess like you wouldn't _believe_. And now... now I guess we deal." He shrugged. "Like we always do." _Together_.

Sam's shoulders were still slumped with misery and the weight of a guilt that Dean thought he understood, but his lips pursed and he nodded at his brother. "Together," he said, his voice working through the tears clogged in his throat, and Dean suddenly knew where that calm, a calm that had eluded him for the better part of a year, cool and precise and _oh yeah I'm ready to face whatever shit the world throws at me_ – was coming from.

That was Sam, and this was Dean, and the patterns of the frayed edges of their sanity only fit against each other and Dean figured it was about damn time the two of them began piecing themselves together again.

The thought filled him with a strange kind of liberty, and "Let's blow this popsicle stand," and Sam's tremulous smile and the beginning of the end of the world might just be the beginning of _theirs_.

* * *

The euphoria and the need and the _together_ was starting to fade and reality was starting to set, piece by piece clunking down upon his soul like stones down a well.

It had started with finding the nurse locked up in the boot of Sam's car, cold and exhausted and hoarse from screaming, the inside of her elbow from where Sam had drawn (_sucked_) blood carefully bandaged and folded. She had almost sobbed in gratitude when she had seen Dean, as he reached in and helped her out, softly reassuring her, promising to take her back to civilisation and a hospital. She had nodded weakly against him, sobbing and gulping and gasping until she had seen Sam behind him, silent and stricken.

Then she had screamed.

She had screamed and kicked and scrabbled with her fingers at Dean's jacket like a drowning woman even as he tried to calm her down, frantically gesturing for Sam to get out of her sight. It had taken several minutes before he had calmed her down again, and through a haze of exhaustion he remembered having pulled out a fake police ID at some point – even if it had been for Wyoming and not Maryland, but she had been too freaked to notice – some half-assed reassurances about how Sam had been 'taken care of', and the promise that she would be safe.

He had driven her away and remembered her in the front seat, calming down by degrees, absently rubbing at the lines of red (_blood, lord it was blood_) down her forearm. He had listened to her talk, almost hysterical at first, before toning down to an exhausted, shocked litany.

Sam, kidnapping her. Sam, holding her against her will, even as she found large chunks of that particular memory missing. Sam, manhandling her into the boot of the car even as she screamed and protested and begged. Sam, with that weird dark-haired woman as his crony, driving around, even as she kicked and screamed herself hoarse in the boot. And then, Sam, _cutting_ her and _drinking her blood_, oh _god_, right in front of her eyes, even as she sobbed and shuddered in revulsion...

Dean could hear no more, and had been glad as her voice faded, her movements grew sluggish and she began shivering (_the blood loss, oh god, Sammy, what have you done_) and they _finally_ reached the hospital.

He had waited long enough to make sure that she would be okay, even pressed a pewter charm against demonic possession among her clothes and was now driving back, back to that god-forsaken old convent where he'd left his brother alone with the fruits of his actions, his own little purgatory.

It was hard, this. Hard to reconcile with what Sam had become, hard to achieve _together_ when all he remembered of _together_ was Sam in his arms as a six-month old baby silent even in the wake of their mother's violent death (_It's okay, Sammy_), Sam as a toddler, wide-eyed and clingy, firmly entrenched in the belief that his father and brother were superheroes, well, mostly (_Dean, why don't we have a mommy?_) Sam, that Christmas night when he discovered the truth about hunting, the sad-hopeful eyes as he pressed the amulet into Dean's hands (_thanks, Sammy. I... love it_), Sam as a broody teenager, resentful of their nomadic and dangerous lifestyle (_I don't want to be the freak for once, Dean_), Sam as the argumentative young man, willing to turn his back on his family for his pursuit of normal (_Dean, all I did was go to college_), Sam, his hunting partner, the two of them muddling through and fighting even as the supernatural took more and more away from them (_as long as I'm here, nothing bad's gonna happen to you_), Sam, afraid and scared of a morbid destiny that he felt he couldn't escape (_I can't kill you, I'd rather die_), Sam, determined and concerned and sad and affectionate in the wake of Dean's deal (_I'm gonna get you out of this. No matter what it takes_).

And then Dean had gone to Hell, and all notions of _together_ had gone with him, too. It was rather obvious which one of them had come back, and which hadn't.

He'd been slightly unnerved by the Sam Winchester he'd come back to – hulking and silent and efficient and _deadly_. A consummate Hunter of the kind his father always wanted him to be. That had quickly built up into anger and resentment as he stumbled across more and more of Sam's secrets – his consorting with Ruby, his demon blood, his ever-developing powers, exorcising and killing demons (_with his freakin __**mind**__, dammit_), his lies (_so many of them_) even as Dean struggled with his own memories of Hell, the deeds that he had done, the thing he had set into motion. Even as Castiel and the angels kept telling him that his brother was destined to an inescapable evil. Even as he and Sam seemed further and further at odds with each other (_you're too weak, you're holding me back_).

And, _finally_. The demon-blood addiction that shattered their world and pieced it together all wrong, locked iron doors and _Dean, let me out now_, Sam's eyes rolling in his head, jerking, flailing, _we need to tie him down before he has another fit_, and the hotel room, _It means you're a monster_ and pain and broken glass, _you don't know me_ and _don't you ever... come back_.

For all that he thought that destiny was a crock of shit, he couldn't help but think that for Sam, the evil had been inescapable, after all.

He had only the barest inkling of the kind of desperation that his brother underwent during the months that he was in Hell – he knew Sam hadn't told him everything, he never told him everything anymore – and to some extent he _got_ it, yeah? There was desperation and grief and self-destruction and then Ruby and _the devious little hell-bitch_ and manipulation. Training and powers and missions and revenge.

What he _didn't_ get?

Sam's secrecy, when he came back. Sam, and all those broken promises (_I didn't go down that road. It was practically your dying wish_), false assurances (_it's playing with fire. I'm done with it_) the clandestine meetings and sneaking around and the shame-faced _lies_. Dean wanted so desperately to believe that his brother had had no choice, that it was all the supposed demon-blood pumping through his veins, that Sam was still _his _Sam, not this stranger (_monster_), not this broken shell of a little brother so driven by a notion that had long ago lost all meaning that he had been willing to let himself be manipulated by a demon, let himself turn into the very thing that he had been scared of for so long.

For all that Ruby had been involved, it had also been Sam's decisions that had gotten them into this mess.

Just like his own decision to make the deal.

Or to never trust Sam not to go darkside.

To not retain that steadfast belief in his brother had kept them afloat so many times before, when Sam was drunk and self-destructive (_you've got to promise to kill me, Dean_), when Sam was possessed and just plain destructive (_deep down, you know you can't save your brother_), when Sam was hunted for his abilities (_your brother's not human_).

Dean gritted his teeth, grip tightening around the steering wheel, some corner of his mind craving for the familiarity of the Impala. His head hurt just _trying_ to work around the tangled lines of _choice_ and _responsibility_, not to mention the intervening strokes of _fate_ and _destiny_ and whatever other shit the angels had cooked up for him.

All he knew now was where all this had led them and all he wanted to know was where they would go from here. Meandering introspection was never his style anyway; Sam had done enough brooding for the two of them all his life. It was Dean's job to focus on the _now_ and the _next_.

So what did they have?

_Dean, I'm sorry_. Regret, love, fear. _Sam_.

For then, it would have to do.

* * *

Dean had half-expected not to find Sam there once he got back (_what was I thinking, leaving him all alone_) but he found his little brother sitting on the dusty stone steps leading into the convent, legs bent at the knees, arms resting lightly on his thighs, long fingers dangling, brushing his kneecaps. Just... staring. At nothing, and everything. Dean cringed.

He _really_ didn't feel up to dealing with an Introspective Sammy right then.

Sam turned his head as Dean approached him, the moonlight and the stone structures and the dust throwing crazy shadows across his face. His eyes were clear now, if slightly bloodshot, and they were asking him a question.

"She's okay," Dean replied. _Well, as okay as a person who's been possessed, kidnapped and had her blood sucked can hope to get_. "She probably remembers you, and you've probably got your ass on the wrong side of the law now, but hey. What's new, right?" He tried for a grin, and failed spectacularly.

Sam nodded, breathing in through pursed lips and proceeded with his thousand-yard stare.

Dean sighed, and settled down next to his brother, exhaustion forcing a few more minutes of silence. He knew that they should get their asses moving, and soon – there was just so much to _do_, so much to deal with, and so many things that they were better off leaving behind, and those things just didn't end with the corpses or the blood or the sigils or the debris.

"I'm thinking we need to get back to Bobby's," Dean said finally (_now and the next_). "We're going to need to figure out our next move, and that's not counting getting some word from Cas."

"Cas...?"

Dean was suddenly consumed by an inexplicable desire to laugh. He had so many things to say to his brother that were just not working their way past the exhaustion. "Dude, the _angels_. Just –" He shook his head. "Things are more messed up than we could've imagined." Zachariah, and his callous indifference to the imminent destruction, his _welcoming_ of the Apocalypse, the grand war that it entailed and all the glories that followed, Dean's as-yet unexplained role in finishing what he had started, Cas and _something worth dying for _and bright light and _go and stop your brother. I'll hold him off. I'll hold them all off._

A shudder worked itself down Dean's spine.

Sam nodded absently, and it was only then that Dean noticed that he was shivering.

It couldn't just be the cold – it was a fairly chill early morning, but practically all their lives had been forcing stiff bodies to work and fight efficient in cold weather, and it made no sense for Sam to –

_Shit._

Scrambling to his feet, Dean proceeded to crouch in front of his brother. Sam didn't even respond fully this time, just the slightest tilt of his head, and _god_, he was not so much as shivering as he was shaking like he was about to come apart any second...

_Any second now..._

The dark circles round his eyes stood out starkly against pale skin now, skin that was moist and chill and clammy with cold sweat, sweat beading from that expansive brow, a brow now creased in a perennial half-grimace of pain and discomfort and raw _need_, and Dean could feel it all crashing back on him now – the addiction, the Panic Room, _at least he dies human_, the screaming and the seizures, and how were they going to deal with this now?

Dean wasn't even aware of how long he remained like that, crouched and gaping into his brother's face, while his shaking grew steadily worse and Sam hissed out his name on a long exhale through his teeth. "_Dean_."

"Sammy." He tried to still his brother by wrapping his hands around those muscular forearms, warm, secure, _I'm your big brother and I'm not gonna leave_. "C'mon, Sammy, fight this. This blood. You know this, you can _do_ this." At this point he was pretty much blabbering, but his head still had a shitload of things to work around, yeah?

"Dean," Sam whispered again, "Dean it's not the blood, Dean, _Dean – _it's me, _me_, but I don't –" His arms were now rubbing restlessly against his jean-clad thighs, and tears were starting to leak down the sides of his face again. "But I still need it."

Dean's grip tightened, twisted.

Sam didn't seem to notice the pain. "It was _my _fault, I get it now, and Dean, I'm sorry, _Dean_ –" Now he was outright _sobbing_, repeating his brother's name in a broken, desperate litany, and Dean just sat there, still gripping his brother's arms (_who was anchoring whom_) suddenly so unused to this, unused to having his little brother baring his heart to him, coming to him for support and protection and forgiveness and a billion other intangibles that both of them had somehow forgotten along the way, manipulated by demons and angels, torn to opposite sides that pushed them toward achieving a similar goal in entirely different ways, promising _destiny_ and _fulfilment_, _revenge_ and _redemption_, even while the final destination entailed none of those promises, or at least a horribly distorted and marred version.

_Sammy, why – _

Dean still didn't know how to comfort his brother, still was trying to work his way through _trust _and _betrayal_ and _blood_ and _lies_ and _Hell_, to where he thought his Sammy still existed, where he could still love and trust and believe in his brother again. _How_ that was going to happen, he didn't know. _If_ it was going to happen – still a big question.

But he wasn't Dean Winchester, hunter and son and _big brother_, if he wasn't going to _try_.

His grip on Sam's arms expanded to envelop those broad shoulders, and soon Sam was shaking against his chest, a madman broken by the inexorable influences of powers far greater than his will. Dean rested his head against Sam's hair, closed his eyes – it didn't feel _right_, not yet, but they were getting there. Both of them, still staggering under the weight of guilt and regret and the devastating consequences of their choices, but no longer on opposite sides.

This was Dean, and that was Sam, and the only side that mattered was _theirs_.

* * *


	2. Sam

_**A/N:**_ So at great risk of personal injury, I have finally done it: the follow-up to the finale, written this time in Sam's perspective. Since season 4 provided us with very little detail about what exactly Sam did off-screen (and he did a lot of the important things off-screen) I've taken some liberties here and filled in the blanks with my speculation. Likely to be spectacularly Kripke'd once Season 5 starts, but I've only followed a line of reasoning I picked up from the show.

Same warnings and disclaimer from the first part apply, although you might want to ramp up the angst factor considerably. After all this angst I probably need to write half a dozen crack!fics to recover. Also, I aim for Sam to come off as a little unhinged here - as he must be, with all that guilt he must be feeling now.

Sam, especially season 4 Sam, is incredibly tough to capture – such a closed-off character by nature, he made things very difficult for me in this chapter. Not really surprising that I found Dean a whole lot easier to write, even though I'm more of a Samgirl.

A little more feedback would be appreciated greatly, thanks!

* * *

_**Sam**_

"He's coming."

Light was everywhere. Blinding, all-encompassing. Nothing else seemed to exist; the world has slipped away in the face of this light, this sheer _power_ he could feel thrumming through his veins, resonating in his bones, and he was lost, drifting with no anchor, nothing to pull him out of this vortex of light and power and blood, except...

Somewhere, in a different universe, he thought he could feel his hand fisted in the coarse fabric of his brother's jacket.

Desperate, Sam Winchester dug in and twisted, when all he wanted was to reach out and revel...

The power coalesced and expanded, and Sam thought, _he's here, he's coming, oh god whathaveI__**done**_ and there was a crash and broken bits of ceiling rained down upon his white world, yanking him rudely out of the nothing and back into the dark, dusty room, the cracked altar, the blood and the two corpses, coated with a fine layer of dust, and Sam thought, almost maniacally , _get me the Salt and the lighter fluid_, as if he could just Salt and Burn the last two years (_Ruby and Lillith and Dean dying, over and over and over again_) and then maybe he needn't be where he was, could be where he _needed_ to be, sliding smoothly into the Impala, exchanging snark and arguments (_and love and relief_) with his brother, after another job done, another life saved, and the road stretching in front of them, forever into the horizon and beyond –

Dean was looking at him.

And his pull into reality was complete; shame and guilt and fear roiled in his gut. Slowly, painfully, he let go of Dean's jacket (_anchor_) and he turned his head, not sure of what he was going to say to Dean, or maybe he was afraid of what Dean was going to say to him (_I'm done saving you_) –

"Sam. Sam, what do we do now?"

– and Sam blinked.

Dean's voice was open, warm, a piece of curiosity soaked in understanding. And _trust_, so alien that Sam was forced to turn his head, staring at his brother with equal measures of disbelief and wonder (_Listen to me, you blood-sucking freak_) and breathed, "What?" hating the way his voice trembled, hating the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

Dean was smiling (_you're evil, Sam_). "You know, what next," he said casually, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. "Was that the big bad, or is Lucifer gonna need a little more prodding before the Apocalypse?"

Sam couldn't understand where this was coming from, couldn't understand what was _what_, his mind grappling at the enormity of what had just happened and failing spectacularly, couldn't understand how he had given so much (_of himself_) for could be twisted into something like this, a marred, polluted road leading to – "I don't know," he managed to say, unable to meet his brother's eyes again. Tears were flowing down his face now – he could feel the burn in his eyes, the lines of warmth down his cheek, _too weak, too weak_ – and he forced himself to talk again. "God, Dean, I don't – didn't – and now _this_ –" He shook his head. "Man, this is all my fault, and, uh." His eyes closed, throat working, refusing to go further. What else could he say? He and Dean had already said so many things to each other and each and every word seemed so _hollow_ now (_I'm just trying to take this curse and make something good out of it_) so why add even more (_even if they were the truth_)?

"Yeah, Sam, it's all your fault," Dean said, and Sam turned again. Dean still had that calm smile on his face (_you'll suck down more poison, more __**evil**_) and there was a kind of dawning wonder in his eyes, a naked expression of love and reassurance that was rare as it was complete – "Just as it was mine to break the first Seal." He shrugged. "Now I guess we deal. Like we always do."

Sam still felt as if things were in a tailspin – couldn't connect the line between the Dean who had spewed vitriol down the phone, the Dean who had condemned him to evil, to _this_ Dean, the Dean who professed to understand, the Dean who was reaching out, smiling like the past two years hadn't happened, like he hadn't just –

"Together," Sam worked out, suddenly not caring. Maybe he was still hallucinating, maybe this Dean was not the _real_ Dean, maybe he was caught in his own apocalypse, drowning in surrealism, pulled down by the weight of his own guilt, maybe it was the demon blood, maybe it wasn't –

Dean was still looking at him.

"Let's blow this popsicle stand, then," he said, raising his eyebrows and Sam allowed himself to believe.

Maybe Lucifer had risen, maybe he hadn't, but Dean was _here_, and maybe the beginning of the end of the world might just be the beginning of _theirs_.

* * *

She was looking at him.

It was like he could see it unfolding in slow motion, frame by frame, the shuddering relief as she all but collapsed against Dean, tracing the line of her vision as it shifted stutteringly onto Sam over his brother's shoulder, the widening of her eyes in abject terror, lips and bruised skin stretching and mouth opening to release that awful, all-too-familiar scream, loud and terrified and pitiful (_please make her stop please please __**please**_) –

She was looking at him, and she knew him for what he really was.

Sam felt frozen, watching almost with a detached fascination (_I had to do it, I did; I didn't have to, I did_) before noticing Dean waving an impatient hand at him. _Get out of her sight_.

He quickly slunk away, ankles impacting against the stone steps leading into the convent before his body folded and he settled heavily on the nearest step, still so numb, yet not completely anesthetised from the guilt that was chewing at the bottom of his brain like a malignant worm, a sense that was so physical that dull pain expanded across his brow and down the sides of his neck. Weariness cascaded down his limbs, tightened muscles slowly relaxing, back bending in a soft arc as he slowly sank into himself.

_You didn't need the feather to fly – _

Sam's ultimate refuge was logic.

It may seem to strange to those who knew the kind of trade he plied, but Sam had always believed in an order, definitive sequences of events leading unto one another; not only did such a mindset help him with what he did best – deducing, analysing, integrating and associating – but it was also a way he could hold his mind above the horrors of his everyday life, entertain views of normality even while he lived an extraordinary childhood in which his only constants were death, blood, loss. His family. His brother.

Logic told him if there was evil there must also be good, that if he could go through _this_, then there would also be a life without living in darkness. Logic told him there was a world out there where he could be _him_, where unknown intangibles did not decide what happened to his life; that _his_ decisions unfolded the series of events that decided his destiny, who he was.

Fat lot of good Logic had done him.

In the months after losing Dean, when his list of constants had been reduced to just 'death, blood, loss', logic didn't help him. The world had seemed frighteningly empty and full at the same time, so full of evil co-existing with professed good, dark and light intertwined in an eclipse of such complex uncertainty that nothing made _sense_ any more. Without sense went control, without control went sanity. Despair roiled with alcohol in his gut, wandering and searching for ways to get his brother back (_failing, failing, all the time_) wrapped in a nonsensical haze, the world around him reduced to a procession of jumbled events. It was then that he had realised a truth.

Sam's ultimate refuge was _Dean_.

For all that he had resented his brother for trying to control his life (_you're siding with Dad again, Dean_) it had been his brother's presence, his faith, his _need_, that had driven Sam in his convictions, the rock-sure certainty that his brother's got his back, that he was something to return to (_it's just college, Dean_) then later, his brother's unwavering faith in his essential goodness even while the prospect of the dormant evil inside of him manifesting tore apart his dreams and every waking moment (_I need to change my destiny, Dean_). It was inside of him, outside of him, visions leading unto gory experiences all designed to bring about something that had been decided for him when he was naught but six months old and seen his mother burn on the ceiling above his crib. But Dean was _there_, and that was enough to give him the power to control this shit. The power to end it (_you have to promise to kill me, Dean_).

Then he died, and then Dean died for him, and he didn't die again (_although he ought to have_).

No faith, no control, only evil, within and without... and Ruby.

– _you had it in you the whole time_.

There was a cruelty about freedom – it was worthless without purpose; purpose was worthless without a plan. Ruby seemed to have come into his life with both in the nick of time, when he was crazed and drunk and suicidal, had given him a purpose, a goal, and more than anything else, the tools to reach it. An ability to _use_ the things he feared within him, to take it and become stronger, to employ it in a mission for justice that was a giant _Fuck you_ to all those forces that had looked to manipulate him, use him for his abilities.

It had been intoxicating.

"_Who are you?_" he'd asked one night, spent from another bout of mind-exorcisms trying to eke out information from uncooperative demons.

She had looked at him, confused, a small flask of whiskey half raised to her lips. "_Ruby_," she said, quirking her eyebrows. "_I thought we'd gotten past that by now_."

"_No, that's not what I meant._" He had shaken his head. "_I mean, what are you? Whose side are you on?_ _Good or evil?_"

The confusion vanished, and a smile had curved her lips – not an unkind one, and she set aside her flask. "_You know better than anyone that there's no clear demarcation between good and evil, Sammy._" She had reached out with one hand, lightly stroking a strand of his sweat-soaked bangs before tucking it behind his ear. "_I'm on your side_."

He had frowned. "_Mine_?"

She had nodded, leaning into him and straddling his thighs with hers as he sat on the bed. "_Yours and yours alone_," she had whispered, lips brushing his ear, the reek of sulphur strong on her breath. It didn't repulse him, not anymore. "_Why should there be sides, Sam? This story's about you. What __**you**__ want. What you need to do._" She had pulled her face back, smiling into his eyes, long dark hair framing a delicate face that seemed to hold genuine affection. "_You're calling the shots, Sam. Isn't that what you always wanted?_"

He had turned his head away at that point, grief rising like bile at the back of his throat as painful memories of Dean began to resurface. "_I don't –_"

A hand on his cheek had gently forced his gaze back onto hers. "_I'm here to give you the power you need, Sam. Because you're the only person in the world who can do this_." Her eyes flashed pitch black for a microsecond. "_A fallen angel on your shoulder, your guide through the lands of the dead_." Her lips had met his then, and he had given himself to the kiss, the moment rapidly ramping up in passion as he gathered her forcefully and the kiss deepened. He had bit her lip and felt the blood flood in his mouth, its coppery tang with its sulphurous undertones bursting supernovas behind his eyes, pushing all his doubts and fears and moralistic meanderings into a sharp singularity point for the void he'd become, buried deep within his chest.

If only he had had any _idea_...

He ought to have _known_, oughtn't he? He should never have trusted her so _blindly_ – pushed by ideals that now seemed so selfish in the light of the disaster he had unleashed. He ought to have _considered_, used that scientific bent of thought he had always prided himself so much upon, should have _wondered_ about how _convenient_ it was that a dose of any random demon blood was enough to activate his demonic abilities, but _no._ He had been too relieved at having been given the decision to control his powers, to trace its source to something that need not necessarily be _in _him, but to something which intake and use he could regulate.

Turns out he had misjudged on both counts.

The power was _his_, and he was now saddled with a demon blood addiction to boot.

Ruby had used his every little weakness and manipulated them expertly, a plan so carefully constructed with such deep insight and cunning that Sam couldn't help but feel a grudging admiration burgeon in his chest.

Just as he had settled into a definitive rhythm, Dean had come back, and torn his carefully reconstructed world apart again.

Startled and confused and filled with a blessed relief so profound that all he could seem to make himself do was fall back into his usual rhythm with his brother, he had chosen not to tell his brother what exactly he had been up to. For all of Dean's faith in him, he knew the knowledge that Sam had given in to using his powers voluntarily would startle and upset his brother (_remember what I taught you, Sam_). He had had no idea how his brother would react, and as the days went by he only grew more entrenched in his conviction to shield his brother from the truth, as Dean appeared brittle and unsteady from his time in Hell, and not at all like the big brother he had once trusted could fix anything in the world.

The angels entering the picture and warning him about his powers stoked a slow simmering fear burning in his gut and there had been times – so many of them, too many – when he had considered just dropping his own mission and enjoying a literally God-given second chance at a life with his brother. But in the end it was Dean, as always, who had him go ahead with his convictions. He could _see _the change, couldn't he? He could _feel_ it. Dean just wasn't _Dean_ anymore. Hell had changed him – he was not the blustering, smirking umbrella of protection made of forged steel that he had been to Sam all his life (_I wish I couldn't feel anything anymore, Sammy_).

It was _Sam's_ turn to protect his brother.

It was just as intoxicating as the demon blood.

He hadn't really expected Dean to understand, should've expected his brother stumbling onto his dirty, dark truth sooner than later, should've known how he would react (_if I didn't know you, I'd want to hunt you_), should've anticipated things going sour between them, almost to the point of no return (_you're not the Sam I knew_), but Dean was being was asked for too much by the angels, things he was no longer ready or equipped to do, but Sam _was_. Sam was stronger now, stronger than even Dean, and he would protect his brother no matter how bad things got between them. Maybe Dean would understand one day.

After he had ended their desperate fight once and for all and given Dean the life he deserved.

It had all made so much _sense_ then.

... hadn't it?

Sam huddled miserably on the stone slab, pulling his jacket closer around him as the night's chill seemed to encroach upon him, seeping into every pore and starting little shivers that seemed to emanate from his very core. The dull pain had intensified and dropped to his abdomen where he could feel his gut twisting painfully. _Fantastic_, he thought, almost bitterly. _Can't wait for the hallucinations to start_.

... Where had it all gone so _wrong_?

The addiction, the confused mesh of pain and fear and guilt that was his time locked up – _by his brother_ – in the Panic room, the subsequent escape and the fight (_you're a monster, Sam_) and the nurse and the kidnapping and the blood (_burst through his consciousness like nothing had ever before, sweet and intoxicating and lifting him into everything he had ever wanted to be_) and the final confrontation with Lillith and his eyes turning black and learning the truth and Dean and Ruby and _Lucifer_ –

-- _no_.

Not now, Sam.

He couldn't –

The dust dancing in the moonlight in front of him seemed to be resolving into a silhouette now – he could vaguely make out the stature to be that of his brother's, and some sort of inexplicable relief rushed through his veins. He needed to –

-- it wasn't Dean.

Adam stood there, smiling benignly at Sam. "_Hey big bro_," he said, even as a strip of flesh quietly tore itself from the side of his face. "_brooding as usual?_" A sudden chunk of flesh disappeared from his shoulder, as if bitten off. Even as Sam watched, long gashes opened themselves on the arms of his younger brother's apparition, dripping blood that ran in long rivulets that finally pooled near Sam's shoes (_he was a screamer_).

"No," Sam whimpered, dipping his head into his hands. When he dared to raise his eyes again, it was Jessica – in her bloodstained nightgown, her hair catching fire even as she leered with disgust (_Why, Sam?_). Then it was Dad. Dean. Madison. Every person he had ever tried to reach out to, every person he had ever loved, every person he had lost.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, fighting back tears. "I'm so sorry."

It was all he had against a burgeoning guilt that rode his side-effects from the addiction like a monster, all he had for a brother who couldn't trust him anymore, all he had in answer to a world he had condemned to evil with his actions.

For then, it would have to do.

* * *

He wasn't entirely sure how he knew the Dean approaching him in a tired, loping gait was not another hallucination, but he figured the second Dean standing in front of him reminding him rather explicitly why exactly Sam didn't deserve to be his brother was something of a clue in that regard. With a great deal of effort, he tore his attention away from the notDean (_it was not, it couldn't be, that was all he had to tell himself_) to his brother, raising his eyebrows in askance.

Dean looked tired, the moonlight throwing the exhaustion etched into every line of his face into sharp relief. Another stab of guilt pierced at Sam. "She's okay," Dean said, lifting his shoulders. "I mean, she probably remembers you, and you've probably got your ass on the wrong side of the law now, but hey. What's new, right?" He tossed him a weak smile.

"_Nothing new_," notDean said from beside him. "_You're used to being on the wrong side of pretty much __**everything**__ these days, aren't you, Sam?_"

Sam closed his eyes briefly, taking in a shuddering breath (_not real_) and nodding.

He heard Dean sigh and eventually settle himself on the step beside him, and for a wildly beautiful moment it was like old times, when they seemed to know each other so well words weren't always necessary, where they could just _be_, side by side, in companionable silence. Sam tried to lose himself in the memory, but the pain in his gut felt like somebody was twisting a knife in his intestines and it was all he could do to clench his teeth against crying out, against the cold now drawing stronger and stronger shudders from his frame.

But he could get through this. He needn't be locked up anymore. He didn't have to bother Dean, didn't have to cause his brother any more suffering. He would get through the withdrawal on his own.

Couldn't he?

All he had to do was _remind_ himself...

"_It's not going to stop, you know_," Jessica said, bending near his ear, and god help him, he thought he could feel the heat of her breath tickle his earlobe, just like – "_You've already gone too far._"

_-- It's already gone too far, Sam – _

He nearly jumped when Dean began talking again. "I'm thinking we need to get back to Bobby's," he said. "We're going to need to figure out our next move, and that's not counting getting some word from Cas."

Sam frowned. "Cas...?"

His brother huffed out a laugh. "Dude, the _angels_. Just –" He shook his head. "Things are more messed up than we could've imagined."

_You have no idea_, Sam thought, nodding even as a transformed Madison leered at him with blood dripping from her claws, a perfectly round bullet hole seeping blood from the middle of her forehead (_notrealnotrealnot__**real**_).

And, oh god, it was so _cold_...

Suddenly Dean was in front of him, grabbing at his forearms, eyes green and wide and _Jesus, Sammy, what's wrong with you?_

Except he didn't say it. Dean _knew_.

The shivering got more violent, Dean's grip stronger and the pain more excruciating, before Sam finally forced out, "_Dean_," barely holding in a scream. He couldn't – shouldn't – let his brother know, had to deal with it on his own, because _his own_ was all he had had for what seemed like so long...

"C'mon Sammy," Dean muttered, gazing earnestly at him. "Fight this. This... blood. You know this, you can _do_ this."

_It always had to be you, Sammy. _"It's not the blood, Dean," he whispered, "Dean, _Dean – _" The pain was sharp now, and the world seemed to be blurring and tilting to one side, though that could be because of the moisture wetting his eyelashes... "—it's me, _me_, but I don't –" He struggled restlessly, but Dean's grip was unwavering. "But I still need it."

There. He had said it.

Dean's eyes darkened, he could see the hardening of the jaw-line even through his impaired vision, could feel the pain as his grip tightened and twisted on his forearms – "It was _my_ fault, I get it now, Dean, I'm sorry, _Dean_ –" And now he was pretty much blathering, feeling like the past dozen years had never happened and he was just the scared young boy – a stranger both within and without his family – seeking his older brother was comfort and consolation and the unspoken promise to set things right and make everything better (_I've gotcha, Sammy_).

There was a brief hesitation that he could almost _feel_ physically (_Yeah, Sam, I think you'll go darkside_) before his brother's arms moved around his shoulders, and _no_, everything was _not_ better, but it was probably the closest it had come to that in many dark, lonely months. Sam figured he would always feel a little disgusted with himself for letting go so completely, that the feel of his tears soaking the front of his brother's jacket was another sign of his failure, and he knew, bedrock _knew_, that there was so much he still had to do to regain Dean's trust, to atone for what he had done, but at least they were now on the same page, working toward the same goal, together.

At least they were willing to _try. _

For this was Sam, and that was Dean, and the only side that mattered was _theirs_.

_**Finis**_


End file.
